The Measure of a Man

Author’s notes:

The past several years, I’ve posted a Father’s Day story in honor of the special men in my life. Sticking with tradition, “The Measure of a Man” features not one, but two, Bob-White fathers. Join us now as we peek back into the college years of Win Frayne and Matt Wheeler, and then be prepared to fast-forward several years to see how the past influenced the future.

“The Measure of a Man” is dedicated to Kari. I don’t know if you’re still reading fan fiction, sweetie, but if you’re out there, this one’s for you!

Sixteen years before The Secret of the Mansion…

Win Frayne meticulously folded his favorite flannel shirt and then laid it on top of the neat pile of clothes already in his suitcase. He was so engrossed with the task at hand that he failed to hear his best friend’s approach.

“I hate to tell you this, Win, but the Boy Scouts aren’t outside handing out badges for the guy with the neatest bag,” Matt Wheeler teased, a devilish glimmer in his deep green eyes.

“You never know,” Win countered.

Matt snorted. “I seriously doubt the dean’s going to keep you here over the weekend because you forgot to properly fold your underwear in half.”

“I assume you’re already packed and ready to go,” Win commented. He smirked over at his friend, who was without a doubt the more carefree one of the pair.

“Of course.” Matt sat on his friend’s twin-size bed. “It took a whole five minutes, most likely a new Matthew Wheeler record.”

“Well, don’t come crying to me when all your clothes are wrinkled when you unpack them,” Win scolded lightly.

Matt shrugged his broad shoulders. “That what irons are for.”

“Do you even know how to use an iron?” Win inquired, one ginger brow quirked skeptically.

Matt grinned like the cat that had just eaten the proverbial canary. “No, but that’s what mothers are for. Or in my case, housekeepers.”

Win tossed back his head and chuckled heartily. “You’re not gonna win any favor from the feminists, my friend.”

“True,” Matt agreed with a chuckle of his own. “It’s a good thing that I’m so charming and good-looking that I can win over everyone else. And according to my grandfather the senator, winning over the majority is the key to success.”

Although the exchange was lighthearted, Win sensed a serious undertone. In spite of how his friend claimed to be out for himself, Win realized it was a farce. The rest of the world may have bought Matt’s cutthroat persona, but Win knew the real Matthew Wheeler, the Matthew Wheeler who was caring, compassionate, and considered others above himself. Although the Wheelers were wealthy, they were by no means filthy rich. However, Matt’s family was powerful. His mother and father loved their son fiercely, and had groomed him for greatness. Completely devoted to his parents, Matt was determined to succeed. If Win knew his friend as well as he thought he did, he knew that success wouldn’t come at any cost. Somewhere along the way, Matt had missed the “go for the jugular” mentality the rest of his family possessed. Win just prayed that Matt would be strong enough to rise above his family’s influence and become the man he was meant to be. The man, Win knew, that Matt truly wanted to be.

“You’re destined to be highly successful in life, my friend,” Win said quietly. “I only hope that you’ll be satisfied with the road you’ve chosen.” Win closed his suitcase, and then walked over to Matt and thumped his back affectionately. Sensing it was time to change the subject, Win steered the topic of their conversation in a more lighthearted direction. “So, how’re you spending your holiday weekend?”

“Dad and I are going fishing,” Matt told him.

“That sounds like fun.”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, some of my best memories are on that lake. Dad and I have really bonded there through the years. How ‘bout you?”

“Well, I’m making a slight detour so I can visit Uncle James and Aunt Nell. I’m going to spend the night with them, and then I’ll head to Gloversville on Friday,” Win explained.

“Do you have any plans after you get home?”

“Mom has a list of chores waiting for me,” Win said. “Since Dad died, the garage has become so cluttered that she can barely squeeze the old Buick into it. Of course, that’ll have to wait until Saturday, because I have big plans for tomorrow afternoon.”

“Since Katie’s going home to White Plains, I’m assuming your ‘big plans’ don’t include a hot date,” Matt remarked.

Win shook his head, a boyish lopsided grin parting his lips. “Unfortunately not.”

“Don’t tell me you’re volunteering at the soup kitchen again?” Matt’s voice hinted at his exasperation.

“No, that was last month,” Win corrected.

“The Salvation Army?”

Win shook his head. “No, I’m not scheduled to go back there until after Thanksgiving.”

“All right,” Matt proclaimed, lifting his palms in surrender. “What charity are you volunteering at?”

“A children’s home.”

“A children’s home?” Matt repeated incredulously. “Will there be children there?”

“I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I understand, a ‘children’s home’ does usually house children,” Win replied in his most smart-aleck tone.

“Ha-ha, that was hilarious,” Matt responded sarcastically. “Don’t tell me. You’ll be wowing the kids with your comedy act, right?”

“For your information, I’m hoping the nun in charge of the orphanage will let me teach the kids a nature class over summer break.”

“Are you kidding?” Matt snorted in disbelief. “You’d give up your summer break to teach a bunch of snotty-nosed munchkins the difference between an oak leaf and a pinecone?”

“Actually, I thought we’d start with something more basic…such as, what poison ivy looks like and how to avoid it,” Win argued good-naturedly. “If they catch on quickly, I have my leaf samples all ready to go.” He cast his friend a sidelong glance. “Wanna tag along?”

Matt wasted little time considering the offer. “Thanks, but no thanks. I like fish a lot better than kids.”

“I thought you liked children,” Win remarked.

“Oh, I do.” Matt grinned. “I just happen to like them a lot better at a distance.”

“Don’t you want kids of your own someday?”

Matt’s expression grew sentimental. “Well, maybe one or two. But not in the immediate future.”

“Don’t tell me,” Win said. “You want a strapping, young lad to carry on the proud Wheeler line.”

“Actually,” Matt began, “I’ve always wanted a daughter— a dainty, little girl that could wrap me around her little finger with one bat of her huge eyes.” He cleared his throat nervously, eager to shift the attention off himself. “I’ll bet you want a whole houseful.”

“Yeah, that’s what Katie and I have planned,” Win affirmed.

“What if you only get one?”

Win chuckled. “Well, if Katie has her way, we’ll get a freckled redhead who’s the spitting image of his father. Of course, I wouldn’t mind a little girl that looks just like her mama, but I admit that I would like a son to carry on the Frayne legacy.”

“Think your son’ll be a Boy Scout like his old man?” Matt asked teasingly.

“If I do my job right, he will,” Win countered.

“Frayne, without a doubt, you’re the biggest do-gooder on the whole planet,” Matt commented with a shake of his head. “You’re going to win the Nobel Peace Prize before you’re thirty.”

Win made a face. It appeared he was uncomfortable with his friend’s praise. “I’m not finding the cure for cancer, Matt. I just want to do my part to make the world a better place.”

“And you think you can do that by teaching orphans the difference between a pine needle and an oak leaf?”

“Well, it sounds like a good place to start,” Win said. “And teaching a nature course isn’t nearly enough. These kids need a lot more than just a few hours every Saturday.”

Matt studied his friend closely. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a strange guy?”

“Only once or twice,” Win answered with a wink. “However, in my opinion, a guy’s strange if he doesn’t want to help the people who need it the most.”

Matt’s conscience burned, something that happened almost every time he spoke with his honorable friend. “So, what does Katie think about this?”

“She’s all for it,” Win replied, surprised that Matt even had to ask.

“Of course she is.” Matt’s comment held no sarcasm. As much as he hated to admit it, the tenderhearted, generous Katje Vanderheiden was the perfect match for the civic-minded, honorable Winthrop Frayne. “It doesn’t surprise me a bit that Katie supports you. However, since you two are connected at the hip, I’m shocked that she’s willing to spend the summer away from you.”

“Actually, she wants to volunteer at the orphanage, too,” Win told him. “She loves working with kids. In fact, we’ve talked about starting a school for needy children someday.”

Matt shook his head in disbelief. “You and Katie never fail to amaze me. Sometimes I think God just sent you to be my roommate to make me look bad.”

“Maybe He sent me here to talk some sense into you,” Win joked.

“Maybe you’re right,” Matt said in a voice barely audible.

“So, do you want me to sign you up?”

“Sign me up for what?” Matt inquired.

“Why, to join the staff of our school, of course!”

“Are you serious?” Matt snorted. “Have you given up your Boy Scout lifestyle and taken up smoking crack?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Win asked with a shrug. “I think you’d be good addition to the staff.”

“You have started smoking crack,” Matt stated.

“Hey, I’m being serious,” Win argued. “Kids like you, Matt, and they’re a good judge of character. I’ve seen how they gather around you at the park. Why, I’ll bet someday you have a whole crowd of teenagers who’re always hanging around your house.”

“Great, something to look forward to,” Matt responded wryly.

“Someday you won’t be nearly so cynical,” Win said, chuckling at his friend’s horrified expression. “When you’re older and wiser, you’ll see things differently.”

Matt quirked a skeptical brow. “Is that so?”

“God has big plans for you, my friend. If you’ll yield to Him, He’ll use you in ways you never imagined.” He paused as he cocked his head pensively. “He might even use you to help start my school.”

“Yeah, who knows,” Matt mumbled. He shifted, uncomfortable by the direction this conversation had taken. “Maybe after I’ve struck it rich, I’ll be able to back you financially.”

“Maybe.” With a close-lipped smile, Win turned to the shelf that neatly housed his textbooks. “Guess I’d better pack a few of these in case the nuns ask me to start immediately.”

Matt stood silently for several moments as he watched his friend gather the materials he’d need for his class. Finally, the question niggling at his mind had to be asked.

“Win?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do spend so much time helping people?”

Win turned around, his emerald green eyes wide with surprise. “Do you really want to know?”

“I do.”

“I once heard someone say that the measure of a man is his family,” Win explained. “I don’t want my own father not to measure up because of me. And when I have a son, I only hope that I can show him what’s truly important in this life, as Dad taught me. After all, my son will measure me someday.”

Matt nodded mutely. Although he didn’t speak, he would remember Win’s words for the rest of his life.

On Friday afternoon Win arrived at the orphanage. The large, open room in which he sat smelled vaguely of Play-Dough and peanut butter, an odd combination which he found surprisingly soothing. Several children played in the area around him, and more than once, Win had to pry his briefcase away from sticky fingers. He chuckled ruefully as he noted the tiny fingerprints covering the brown leather satchel.

Almost instantaneously, the children ceased their playing. The very same boys and girls who had been whooping and hollering only minutes before now stood in silence, their backs ramrod straight. They marched out of the room in a single file line, reminding Win of miniature soldiers. He had just opened his mouth to ask where they’d received their military training when he saw a tall, thin, grim-faced nun standing in the doorway. She looked down her nose at the children as they filed past her. If her icy glare wasn’t threatening enough, she held a rod in her right hand, and every so often would smack it against her left palm.

Once she and Win were the room’s only occupants, she strode purposefully to her visitor. Win observed her perfect posture, noting this must have been the person who’d trained the troops.

Here comes the drill sergeant, Win thought to himself with a grin. Now that the children were gone, he expected the nun to smile in greeting, or at least remove the stern frown from her face. Much to his surprise, the grimace remained, as if it had been set in concrete. He found himself almost quaking in his shoes as the nun approached him.

“Mr. Frayne?” she inquired briskly.

Win instinctively gulped as he felt the pressure of the nun’s intense scrutiny. “That’s me,” he said as cheerfully as possible. Any pretense of joy screeched to a halting stop as the woman’s disapproving gaze bore into him. Her dull gray eyes reminded him of a magic measuring stick, and Win was positive he didn’t come close to meeting her rigid expectations. He had to fight the urge to squirm.

The nun studied Win disapprovingly through the bifocals perched at the end of her nose. “I assume you’re the young man who wishes to enlighten our residents this summer.”

“I’m prepared to do my best.” Win cleared his throat nervously. “By the way, you can call me Win.”

“As an example to the children, I’ll refer to you as Mr. Frayne,” the nun replied, almost uncaringly. “My name is Sister Mary Agnes.”

Win smiled politely. “A pleasure to meet you.” Sister Mary Agnes didn’t respond, only making Win more apprehensive.

“When we spoke on the phone,” he continued anxiously, “you mentioned that you wanted to interview me before you made a decision. Do you want to do that here, or did you have somewhere else in mind?”

The stern-looking nun pulled a watch from her pocket and looked at the time. “You’re twenty minutes early, young man. As much as I commend you for your punctuality, we do have a schedule to keep. My duties as administrator require my attention until 2:00. At that time, I’ll return for our interview. You’ll wait here until then. I’ll not have you distracting the children from their schoolwork.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Win answered. Strangely, he felt like a little boy who’d just been forced to sit in the corner wearing a dunce cap.

“I hope you’re prayed up, Mr. Frayne,” the nun warned with a shake of her long index finger. “These children are surely the spawn of Lucifer himself, and I have serious doubts that an inexperienced teacher such as yourself will be able to give them the rigorous instruction they need. However, I plan to keep an open mind until after our interview.”

With that, the nun turned on her heel and marched away.

“Thanks,” Win mumbled as she left. He exhaled slowly, relieved to be free from the intimidating presence.

With nothing else to do, he walked over to the seating area and sat down on a threadbare couch. The lumpy sofa proved to be as uncomfortable as it looked, and Win struggled to find a spot where he wasn’t being jabbed by a spring or sinking to the floor. After a lot of wiggling, he finally found a position that wasn’t torturous.

Suddenly, a small head wearing a cowboy hat poked up from behind the couch. “Is she gone yet?”

Startled by the unexpected voice, Win jumped several inches into the air. When he landed, he leaned back and clutched his racing heart. “Where did you come from?” he panted.

“From behind the couch,” a little boy answered in a stage whisper. “This is my hidin’ spot. It’s a good one, huh?”

Win struggled to keep a straight face. “Well, yeah, I guess it is. Who exactly are you hiding from?”

“Ol’ Hatchet Face.” The boy’s eyes nervously darted around the room. “Did she leave?”

“Who’s ‘Ol’ Hatchet Face’?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Jeesh, mister! You don’t know nothin’. Ol’ Hatchet Face is what I call Sister Mary Agnes.”

Win had to cough to keep from laughing. He did his best to muster a stern expression. “That’s not a very nice thing to call a nun.”

The little boy appeared much older as he studied Win with great skepticism. “Have you ever met Sister Mary Agnes?”

“Briefly.”

“Did ya like her much?”

Win decided to change the subject. “Why’re you hiding back there? Don’t you have schoolwork to do?”

“Guess so,” the boy replied with a shrug.

“Well then, shouldn’t you be in class with the rest of the boys and girls?”

“I s’pose.”

It was Win’s turn to look skeptical. “Won’t your teacher realize you’re missing?”

“She’s usedta me skippin’,” the boy answered matter-of-factly. “I do it all the time.”

“Why would you do that?”

The little boy sighed wearily. “All we ever do is work, work, work. Why, I’ve been writin’ so much that my poor little fingers is nearly broked clean off!” With a petulant pout, he held up his stubby fingers as proof.

Although the aforementioned digits appeared to be in fine working order, Win carefully examined them for any sign of damage. “Hmm… They look fine to me.”

“Well, they may look fine, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I catched the gangrene.” The boy’s eyes were wide with the severity of his situation, and he was so earnest that he almost convinced Win that he should be taken to the infirmary.

“Surely you don’t work all the time,” Win said. “I saw children playing when I arrived.”

“You jus’ happened to come durin’ our afternoon break,” the boy explained. “We only get fifteen minutes to play, an’ that’s only cuz it’s a law or somethin’.” He leaned closer to Win and whispered, “Ol’ Hatchet Face is a real slave driver. She’d work us forever an’ ever if she was allowed.”

Win studied the young lad through narrowed eyes, not knowing whether to believe him or not.

“So, can I come out now?” the boy asked. “I’m all squooshed up back here.”

“Well, if you’re asking if Sister Mary Agnes is here, she isn’t,” Win answered cryptically. He wasn’t about to give this truant student permission to skip class.

With a sigh of relief, the little boy wiggled out from behind the couch. He carefully adjusted his cowboy hat with one hand as he held a stick horse in the other.

In spite of the fact that Win knew he should shoo the boy back to class, he couldn’t keep from watching the little imp’s antics. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he examined the miniature broncobuster strut around, pretending to lead his faithful steed behind him.

Win couldn’t help but remember the nun’s earlier warning. While she had tried to portray the children here as little devils, Win had known better. Just as he’d suspected, the sister’s description of the orphanage’s residents had little merit. The cowboy’s head wasn’t spinning, and ectoplasm wasn’t shooting from his mouth as he levitated off the ground. He’s just an ordinary, little boy, Win thought to himself with a smug smile. Mischievous, perhaps, but that’s to be expected…

The black cowboy hat the child wore was too large for his head, so the little boy had to keep pushing it back so he could see. Although most of his features were hidden, several freckles were speckled across his cheeks. He wore a red and white checked shirt, and his patched blue jeans were too short for his spindly legs. Even though his scuffed cowboy boots had seen better days, they put a swagger in the boy’s step.

“What’s your name, cowboy?” Win asked.

“Roy,” the little boy answered without skipping a beat. “What’s yours, mister?”

“Win. So, how old are you, Roy?”

Roy’s freckled nose wrinkled. “Why do growing-ups always wanna know how many years we kids are?”

“Well, Roy, as ‘growing-ups’, it’s our job to find out things like that,” Win teased, his voice solemn.

“So, if I don’t tell you how old I am, ya might get fired, huh?”

Unable to lie, Win merely shrugged.

“I’m six,” Roy answered helpfully.

Win stifled a grin as he noticed that Roy held up seven, not six, chubby fingers to provide a visual.

“How many are you, mister?” the little boy asked.

“I’m twenty-two,” Win told him.

“Whew,” Roy whistled under his breath. “That’s a lotta fingers.”

“It sure is.” Win tipped his head in the direction of Roy’s stick horse. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“This is my horse, Trigger,” Roy said quite proudly. “Ain’t he a dandy?”

“He sure is.” Win reached out a hand to pet Trigger, who was actually a ragged tan shirt, sewn and stuffed so that it vaguely resembled a horse’s head. Trigger’s mane consisted of a few patches of yellow yarn, and two big black buttons served as eyes. Although the horse was in all actuality a rather sorry-looking steed, his owner looked proud as punch to claim him as his own. For that reason alone, Win deemed Trigger more valuable than the most recent winner of the Kentucky Derby.

“Why, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a finer animal,” Win bragged. “You’re a lucky boy to own such a horse.”

“I sure am!” Roy agreed enthusiastically. “I had another horse before Trigger. His name was Silver, but his head kept fallin’ off.” He leaned closer to Win and added in a conspiratorial tone, “We hadta put him down. Can’t have him sufferin’, ya know.”

Win mustered a sympathetic expression appropriate for such a tragedy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, these things happen,” Roy said with the maturity of a boy twice his age.

“Yes, they do,” Win murmured. “That’s why it’s always wise to take care of our animals.”

“Yes, sir!” Roy agreed, bobbing his head up and down. “I always tell the boys ‘round here that they gotta treat their horses good. You gotta ride ‘em ev’ry day, and you also gotta take their saddles off and brush ‘em before you do anything else.”

Win smiled. “That’s right! It sounds like you have the makings of a fine equestrian, young man.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be a cowboy someday. Jus’ wait an’ see.”

“It’s hard work being a cowboy,” Win warned.

“That’s okay with me,” Roy said, shrugging. “I’m gonna round up doggies all day, sleep out under the stars, an’ watch out for any Indians lookin’ for a fresh scalp.”

Win forced himself not to grin. “I doubt you’ll have to worry about being scalped by the Native Americans.”

“Who’s the ‘Native ‘Mericans’?” Roy inquired curiously.

“That’s the proper way to refer to Indians now,” Win explained. “And just so you know, they don’t scalp people anymore. They’re pretty much like you and me.”

“Oh.” Roy looked truly disappointed not only by the name change, but also by the fact that he was no longer in danger of losing the skin on top of his head.

Noticing the boy’s disappointed frown, Win added, “However, some Native Americans live on reservations and continue the old traditions.”

Roy brightened slightly. “Hey, mebbe one of them’ll try an’ scalp me. Do you think they might?”

“Maybe,” Win encouraged, the corners of his lips twitching.

“The Indians ‘round here’ll scalp ya,” Roy proclaimed, his eyes wide. “Why, me an’ some other cowboys jus’ barely got away from a tribe on the warpath the other day. They was whoopin’ an’ hollerin’ somethin’ fierce as they chased us. Well, at least until Sister Mary Agnes started yellin’ at us to quit. Some of the dumb girls here thought we was act’lly gonna get scalped, an’ they started bawlin’.” Roy rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion to show his frustration.

Once again, Win found himself biting back a chortle. “Someday, you’ll come to appreciate women and all their mysterious ways.”

“Blech!” Roy scrunched up his freckled nose in disgust. “I think I’ll jus’ stick with horses, mister.”

“Believe it or not,” Win began, “as wonderful as horses are, the fairer sex surpasses their charm by far.”

One side of Roy’s mouth turned upward as he tried to make sense of what Win had said. “Huh?”

“In some ways, girls are better than horses,” Win interpreted.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like how?” Roy challenged.

“For starters, ladies smell a lot better than horses.” After a brief pause, Win tacked on a tentative, “Well, usually.”

Roy snorted. “One day someone bringed a horse to the orphanage for us kids to ride. The man let me help put the saddle on, an’ when I did, I smelled that ol’ horse real good.” He leaned closer to Win, and then added emphatically, “He smelled a lot better than Sister Mary Agnes. She smells like broccoli.”

Win was suddenly overcome by a coughing fit, which prohibited him from responding.

“Anyways,” Roy continued, “I’m never gettin’ married. It’s gonna be me an’ my horse, ridin’ off into the sunset all alone.”

Having firsthand experience at being a teenage boy, Win knew quite well that Roy’s opinion would likely change in a few years. He kept that thought to himself, though. “Well, I hope you both are very happy,” he replied instead.

“We will be.” Roy’s small chin edged its way up proudly. “As long as I got me a horse, I won’t need nobody else. I’ll have my horse, an’ he’ll have me. An’ it won’t be a stick horse, neither. It’s gonna be a real, live, honest-to-goodness horse, with a real mane an’ a real tail an’ everything. That way, his head’ll never fall off again.”

“That sounds like a fine plan,” Win commented. “Where are you getting this ‘real, live, honest-to-goodness’ horse?”

“As soon as I’m old enough, I’m runnin’ away an’ headin’ out west,” Roy replied. “I’ll buy me a horse there. A real neat one, too, that can do tricks like Wild Bill Hickok’s.”

“That’d be great.” Win assumed a thoughtful expression. “You know, horses cost a lot of money, especially the kind like you want. How’re you going to afford to pay for it?”

Roy’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “Whatcha mean?”

“How’re you going to pay for this fine horse you hope to purchase?” Win prodded.

“I dunno,” Roy answered, shrugging. “I guess I’ll figger that out once I’m out west.”

“How’re you going to get out west?”

“I ain’t figgered that out, neither,” Roy admitted. He looked up at Win with wide eyes. “Hey, what would you do?”

“Well,” Win drawled out slowly, “if I were you, I’d go to school every day, graduate from high school, possibly go to college or a trade school, and then find a good-paying job that I’d enjoy.”

Roy scowled. “I thought you was gonna tell me how to get my horse.”

“I did,” Win said with a grin. “Once you have a good job, you can save a little from each paycheck to put towards a horse. I’m sure if you worked very hard, it wouldn’t take you long.”

“But that ain’t no fun, mister.” Roy threw up his hands and then slapped them against his thighs to express the hopelessness of his situation. “It’ll take me forever to get my horse. Why, I’m only in first grade, and I gotta bunch to go!”

“Once you graduate, it’ll be worth it.”

“Humph,” Roy muttered. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re a growing-up, an’ you don’t even hafta go to school no more.”

“Actually, I’m still going to school,” Win corrected.

“Well, gee whiz.” Roy collapsed onto the couch, all hope a distant memory. “If you ain’t made it through yet, as old as you are, then there ain’t no hope for me.”

Win chuckled. “Nobody said you had to go to school for as long as I have. I’m in college now, and actually I could’ve graduated last spring, but I have a double major.”

By the look of confusion on Roy’s face, it was obvious that nothing Win said had made any sense. “You mean you coulda been done with school, but you went back all on your own without anyone makin’ you?”

“I certainly did,” Win affirmed with a laugh. “And believe it or not, I actually like school.”

Roy’s chin almost hit the floor. “No way!”

“Yes way.” Win decided to try a new angle. “Roy, the key is to find something you enjoy about school.”

“But I don’t enjoy nothin’,” Roy said, shaking his head.

“You mean you don’t like math or English?”

Roy shook his head again. “Nope.”

“How about science, social studies, or spelling?”

Roy’s upper lip curled in distaste. “I don’t like none of that junk, neither.”

“Well, what do you like?”

“I like horses, an’ I like doin’ stuff outside.” Roy frowned sadly. “But we never seemta have time to do that kinda junk.”

“Don’t you get to play outside?”

“Not really,” Roy said, shrugging. “We us’lly hafta stay inside. Sometimes we ask if we can do somethin’ fun, but they ain’t got enough people workin’ here. The nuns say it’s more ‘portant for us to do our work, anyway.”

Win nodded thoughtfully, carefully choosing his words. “Yes, it’s true that your schoolwork is important, but it’s also important for you to have fun.”

“Do you think you could tell Ol’ Hatchet Face that?” Roy asked hopefully.

The little boy’s expectant expression was the only thing that kept Win from smiling. Something about that look made his question sad rather than impertinent.

“Actually,” Win began, “that’s why I’m here. I’m going to talk to Sister Mary Agnes about teaching a class about nature. Do you think you’d like that?”

“Sure!” Roy answered excitedly. However, his enthusiasm quickly waned, and his grin was replaced by a pout. “She’ll say no, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“ ‘Cuz she always says no,” Roy retorted. “Sometimes I don’t even think she knows the word ‘yes’.”

Win patted the boy’s shoulder and offered him an encouraging smile. “Well, I’ll do my best to talk her into it.”

“Good luck,” Roy told him with all the gravity a six-year-old boy could muster.

“You know, maybe we could convince Sister Mary Agnes that learning fun things would help you learn the things that aren’t so fun,” Win suggested.

“That’s a good idea.” Roy’s eyes brightened. “Hey, I gotta idea! Why don’t you start a school that could teach boys like me fun stuff?”

“Me?”

“Yeah!” Roy agreed, bobbing his head up and down several times. “You seem like a real smart guy. I bet you could teach me real good!”

Although Win was tempted to give an impromptu lesson about the differences between adverbs and adjectives, he decided against it. “It wouldn’t be very smart of me to only teach you about nature. There are a lot of other things you need to learn as well.”

“But why can’t you teach me about that other junk, too?” Roy asked, his tiny brows knotted in confusion. “If a school would mix some fun stuff in with the boring junk, it’d make it a lot easier to learn the boring junk.”

Win’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered Roy’s words. He had to admit that the little boy’s suggestion wasn’t half bad.

“You know, Roy,” he began, “that might actually work. If we mixed fun things like woodworking, horseback riding, agriculture, zoology, and survival into the curriculum, it might be an incentive for boys like you to give your core subjects proper attention.”

“Would this school jus’ be for rich kids, or could kids like me come, too?” Roy held his breath as he waited for the answer.

“Well, it’s all still in the planning stages, mind you, but I think this school would be open for any little boy in need.”

Roy’s expression grew even more hopeful. “Am I in need?”

A lump settled into Win’s throat as he considered Roy’s situation. “Yes, I think you’re just the type we’re looking for,” he answered, his voice husky with emotion.

“Yeehaw!” Roy whooped, throwing his hands in the air in exultation. “Gee, thanks, mister!”

“Whoa, hold on there a minute, little fella,” Win said with a chuckle. “This isn’t something that’s going to happen instantly. It could take years to tackle something like this.”

“But you’re gonna try, right?”

“Yes, I am,” Win answered.

“Do you promise?” Roy urged. “Cross your heart?”

Win smiled. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“I don’t want ya dyin’, mister,” Roy protested. “Then I’ll never get to come to your school!”

Unable to contain his laughter, Win threw his head back and enjoyed a hearty chuckle. He affectionately patted the boy on his shoulder. “Roy, someday I hope I have a boy just like you.”

Smiling shyly, Roy hooked his small hand through Win’s elbow. “Mister, you don’t hafta hope you get a boy jus’ like me. Right now, I ain’t nobody’s boy, so you can have me!”

Roy’s heartfelt offer brought tears to Win’s eyes. His heart broke as he looked into the boy’s sad green eyes. Then and there, he vowed to start his school, if it was the last thing he ever did.

Before he could answer Roy, a shrill voice caused them both to jump.

“William!”

Win watched curiously as “Roy” scrambled to attention.

“Don’t you have geography class now?” Sister Mary Agnes demanded.

“Yes, ma’am.” The little boy’s voice was meek, and his demeanor was respectful.

“Then why aren’t you there, young man?”

Win watched as the little boy stood silent, frozen with fear. His sage green eyes stared at the rod in the nun’s hand, and Win could see him tremble.

“Pardon me, Sister,” Win quickly interjected. “I hate to interrupt, but I can’t let R... er, William take the blame. He was on his way to class, but I stopped him. I guess I got kind of lonely, sitting here all by myself, so I struck up a conversation with the lad. I’ve always been blessed with the gift of gab, and it was hard for the little guy to get away. I hope he won’t be punished for my foolishness.”

The nun stared at Win with disgust. Disappointment evident in her tone, she turned to her young charge and said, “I suppose I’ll overlook your transgression this time, William. However, next time I shall not be so lenient.”

“Yes, ma’am,” William whispered. “Thank you, Sister Mary Agnes.”

“Now, say goodbye to Mr. Frayne.” The nun looked pointed at Win, and then added, “I doubt you’ll be seeing him again any time soon.”

William obediently stuck out his hand for Win to shake. However, instead of accepting his hand, Win pulled the little boy close to his chest and embraced him.

“Thank you, mister,” William whispered tearfully. “I’m sorry I made Sister Mary Agnes mad at ya.”

“Let me worry about Ol’ Hatchet Face,” Win murmured in the boy’s ear.

“That’s enough, William,” the nun ordered sharply.

William reluctantly pulled away, his eyes clouded over with sadness.

“Keep your chin up, cowboy.” Win affectionately tipped the boy’s chin upward. “And hey, I thought your name was Roy.”

William smiled broadly, revealing two missing front teeth. “Sorry ‘bout that, mister.” He used a freckled hand to tip his cowboy hat farther back on his head, revealing a thick shock of red hair. “Act’lly, the name’s Billy. Billy Regan. See ya!”

Billy turned on his heel and dashed out of the room, Trigger in hand. Once he was out of Sister Mary Agnes’ reach, he paused in the doorway and offered a final request to his new friend. “Don’t forget about me, mister.”

Win nodded, too choked up to say anything. But he knew that, for as long as he lived, he would never, ever forget Billy Regan or the promise that he made to him.

Twenty-seven years later…

The years passed. Although Win had kept his promise to always remember Billy, Billy soon forgot about Win and the school. By that time, he was well-acquainted with disappointment, and his defense mechanism was to remove anything from his mind that could possibly cause him more pain.

So, as he witnessed the groundbreaking ceremony for Ten Acres Academy, Bill Regan had no idea that he had actually met Win Frayne or had hoped to attend this very school.

Regan practically beamed as he listened to the speech of his longtime employer and friend, Matthew Wheeler. The rest of the academy’s trustees stood slightly behind Matthew in a show of unified support.

During Matthew’s speech, Jim waited on the right side of the platform, knowing he would have to speak next. The future headmaster of Ten Acres Academy was surrounded by those he had personally selected to serve on his staff: Marge Trask, Vice-Principal; Brian Belden, school physician; Mart Belden, part-time teacher of agriculture and journalism; Diana Lynch Belden, part-time teacher of the arts; and William Regan, activities coordinator.

From his spot on the podium, Regan could look out over the crowd. The rest of the Bob-Whites and their families were sitting in one large group. He could see Dan in the front row, his arm protectively draped across the back of his guardian’s chair. Regan noticed that Dan would occasionally pat the old man’s shoulder in a reassuring manner. It was a struggle for Mr. Maypenny to endure sitting in such a large crowd, but he also knew the stubborn old coot wouldn’t miss this important event for anything.

Farther down the row, the rest of the Beldens watched proudly. Trixie stood out to Regan; her wistful gaze was clearly fixed upon Jim, her expression yearning. In the next seat, Honey fiercely gripped her best friend’s hand. The hazel-eyed young woman looked as if she’d burst with pride. Beside her daughter, Madeleine Wheeler, cool and aloof when Regan had first met her, had to keep a tissue under her nose as she softly wept tears of joy. Although Ed Lynch was on the platform, Carolyn was sitting in the second row, a set of twins on either side.

It was the realization of not only Jim’s dream, but the dream of all who cared for him.

The guest list of this grand event wasn’t limited to Jim’s family and friends. Not only was the president of the First National Bank of Sleepyside in attendance, there were quite a few officers from loaning institutions in White Plains, Croton, and even New York City. All of Sleepyside’s local businessmen and elected officials were on hand, and Regan recognized several politicians, including congressmen, senators, and the governor of New York. Quite a few of the audience members were with the news media. Regan noticed the call letters of several broadcasting stations, and the number of cameras flashing hinted that the crowd also included reporters from the various national newspapers. It seemed that Matthew Wheeler had used every connection he had to draw the attention of New York’s most influential and civic-minded citizens.

Suddenly nervous, Regan shifted from one foot to the other. As he looked around at the people standing with him, he felt undeserving of such an honor. He was the only person on the platform without a college degree. Forget college degree, he thought to himself. I didn’t even graduate from high school. But hopefully what I lack in education, I’ll make up for in dedication…

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jim looking at him. He met his fellow redhead’s gaze, and saw Jim raise a celebratory fist. The desperate look he’d seen in Jim’s eyes when the boy was on the run from Jonesy was long gone. Those same eyes were full of renewed hope.

The crowd suddenly burst into applause, snapping Regan out of his thoughts. He watched as Matthew motioned for Jim to join him at the lectern. Tough as he was, Regan had to sniff back a tear as he watched the father and son embrace. Before returning to his spot with the rest of the trustees, Matthew tenderly clasped Jim’s cheeks and leaned closer to whisper something to his son. Like the rest of the curious onlookers, Regan had no idea what was actually said, but he could tell Jim would remember Matthew’s words forever.

After eleven years of dreaming, the husky redhead claimed the microphone to officially designate the parcel of land he’d inherited from his great-uncle as the future site of Ten Acres Academy. Clearly overcome, Jim struggled to choke back the lump that had risen in his throat.

“In the book of Second Samuel, we read of King David’s desire to build a permanent house of worship for the Lord,” Jim began. “Although David’s intentions pleased the Lord, He wouldn’t allow David to build the temple. The Bible says that David a man after God’s own heart, but he had been a man of war. Instead, the Lord chose David’s beloved son, Solomon, to construct His house. Young Solomon, feeling unworthy of such an appointment, knew the only way he could accomplish such a monumental task was if the Lord granted him wisdom.

“As I stand before you today, I understand how overwhelmed Solomon felt. When I was a little boy, I remember sitting on my father’s knee, hearing him talk about his dream of starting a home for troubled boys. Like Solomon, I inherited my father’s dream. Also like Solomon, it wasn’t God’s will for my father to accomplish his dream. However, just as the temple was a necessity, so is this school. It would be a tragedy for my father’s dream to die with him. This home for troubled children is bigger than Winthrop Frayne; likewise, it’s bigger than me. If I’m to make this dream a realization, I will surely need Solomon’s wisdom, the wisdom that can only come from the Lord.

“My father used to tell me that the measure of a man is his family,” Jim continued. “As I recall his words, I can’t help but wonder how I’ll ever measure up to such a great man. I will be forever grateful for the positive influence my father had upon my life. He took his role as the patriarch of our small family very seriously, and made it his duty to not only talk the talk, but also to walk the walk. He led by example, and by watching him, I learned invaluable lessons about life, love, and responsibility.

“Although his days on this earth were cut short, his legacy will be never-ending. His integrity, honor, and compassion left a lasting impression on all those he met. Therefore, in memory of a man who should never be forgotten, I hereby dedicate this land to the purpose of constructing Ten Acres Academy, Home for Troubled Children. May the vision of Winthrop Frayne be shared by us all.”

Misty-eyed, Jim turned to Regan, who immediately handed him the 14K gold-plated ceremonial shovel that Matthew had purchased specially for the event. Somberly, the would-be headmaster walked off the platform and over to a spot in front of it. Sticking the shovel’s blade into the spot chosen for the cornerstone of the building, Jim announced, “To whom much is given, much is required.” He scooped a pile of dirt from the ground and tossed it aside as the crowd stood to their feet, wildly applauding.

From his vantage point on the podium, the tears which he’d sniffed back earlier could no longer be dammed. Moisture flowed down his weathered cheeks as he witnessed the birth of what would prove to be the salvation of countless underprivileged children. As proud as he was of Jim, he only wished he could’ve had the honor of meeting the man who’d been his example.

Little did Regan remember that, not only had he met Win Frayne, he had been Win’s inspiration.

Credits:

Thank you to the wonderful ladies who volunteered to edit this story on such short notice. Steph H and Ryl, I greatly appreciate your help!

According to Steph, “The Measure of a Man” is the title of a country song. Since I’d never heard that song, I did a search and found out something interesting. Apparently, there have been several songs by that name performed by artists such as Jack Ingram, Clay Aiken, Elton John, and 4-Him. And believe it or not, I haven’t heard a single one of them, and none of them provided the inspiration behind this story. A visitor to Jixemitri and Zaps actually did that by asking what would’ve happened if Win and Regan had met. That comment set my gears to turning, and this story resulted. While writing, I tossed several titles back and forth, but during an episode of “Without a Trace”, I heard one of the characters say, “The measure of a man is his family.” Immediately, I knew that was the title of this story, and sorry, country music fans, it came from FBI Agent Danny Taylor, not Clay Aiken or Jack Ingram. ;-)

Have I piqued your interest about Matt Wheeler’s family background? I truly hope so! More on him to come…

The orphanage Win visited was the one at Glens Falls, where Regan and Danielle were sent after Angels of Mercy burned down. For a reminder, read “Revelations”.

From all accounts, Regan had an unpleasant childhood. How he would’ve benefited from attending a school like Ten Acres!

I once heard the term “Ol’ Hatchet Face” in an old movie. I’m not sure which one, although I do think it was in “The Private War of Major Benson”. The term tickled me so that I used it in this story.

Since Regan was obviously a fan of old cowboy movies, I decided he’d call himself “Roy”, especially since his horse’s name was Trigger. And I couldn’t very well use “Billy”, lest everyone immediately figure out the identity of this little imp!

The term “growing-ups” was coined by Sam, who used that word for a long, long time.

Ever since I began planning my universe, I always knew the school was originally Win’s dream with the David/Solomon comparison in mind.